


A Lonely Kind of Love

by echospool



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Brooding, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Spoilers, villain pov rewrite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-02-19 00:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22602340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echospool/pseuds/echospool
Summary: Dracula reflects on his life in London and the reality of meeting Vanessa.Canon compliant, and will spoil Vanessa's arc in Season 3.
Relationships: Vanessa Ives/Alexander Sweet | Dracula
Kudos: 14





	1. The Private Joys of a Job Well Done

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of a rambly stream of consciousness from Dracula/Dr. Sweet thinking about Vanessa.

Everything had always been leading up to this - finding the one woman who could fill the void in his soul. But of course, in a life as long and singular as Dracula's, there always had to be something more.

He'd become accustomed to the name Alexander Sweet. He appreciated the way the honorific "doctor" landed on people's tongues when they spoke to him. When he was young he thought he would always crave the absolute certainty and power of reigning supreme over man and beast alike, of being revered as Master. But as the centuries wore on he tired of even that. This mundane professionalism was a different kind of respect, and he found he liked it, in a way. Not that he'd want it forever, and in time these colleagues of his would be brought to hell, or simply tossed to the Night Children as food, but not now. Not yet. He still had work to do here.

Dr. Sweet smiled to himself as he pinned a perfect moth wing in place for his new large insect exhibit. He was succeeding in capturing Vanessa's attention through carefully planted details and some feigned forgetfulness on his part. As though her face and name were not burned deep into his heart, and he did not see her eyes every time he closed his. He imagined his brother in Hell, seething at a success he would never find with all his hollow promises and theatricals. A younger, lesser version of Dracula would be gloating to his brother right now, lording his success wherever Lucifer could see it. But age and experience had a mellowing effect, and he relished the private pleasure of a job well done.

Of course, even in his advanced age Dracula was not totally immune to bursts of outrage. Fits of pique and the like. He did not like having to feed one of his children to the rest. His kindred, his blood were sacred. But there is only so much a father can abide.

Dr. Sweet hummed in satisfaction as he completed the arrangement of the Asian _Macrocilix maia_ moth. He gingerly set glass on the shadow box where he'd mounted the beautiful thing. It wasn't a predator, but it was beautiful all the same. Worthy of admiration and care, even though he knew the wretched thing was bound to become one of his dusty cases. Moths did not inspire the same glee and devotion as butterflies and often went overlooked.

His child approaching Vanessa in the hall of mirrors was a setback he had not anticipated. She was afraid for him. Pulling away. Her gentle admonishment that this distance should be taken as a sign of love, such as it was, might have given comfort to a mortal man, but remembering the sadness and fear in her eyes lit a seething anger in his breast again. He should have kept that willful child alive a bit longer so as to make him suffer for the damage he had so thoughtlessly wrought. He knew that the children needed their mother as much as he himself needed her, that he had been a neglectful father and they were bound to act up. But Vanessa had been so close - her hand in his as they traversed the maze. It was all he could do not to take her into a corner, away from prying eyes, and make her writhe and beg for the want of him.

Soon. He would wait. He was very good at waiting. It was cruel, the waiting. This existence. And Vanessa was cruel here too, although he knew that cruel is something she never endeavored to be. It wasn't in her nature, so he could forgive her this trespass. Just this once.

Vanessa would never prolong someone's suffering and isolation. If there were one creature alive who understood the anguish of isolation, of uniqueness, it was her. He remembered visiting her in that pitiable white cell, needing to possess that pathetic orderly to see his own bride. He admired how well Vanessa withstood that torture. He had seen men go mad, smear the walls with their shit and spit and blood, from the stress of isolation alone. But not his Vanessa. She was never anything but purely herself, whether dressed to the nines for that ridiculous ball at Dorian Gray's or in her hospital gown, soaking from the hydrotherapy, she always belonged only to herself. It was why he loved her. And why he needed her to finally be his.

He recalled her unbreakable spirit in the white room. He was so full of rage, and promised her untold battles and terrors that would plague her every step. And for a time, he delivered. They were mistakes that he had to make in order to get to know the real Vanessa. Not just Amunet in a new skin, but as her very own creature. He did not know that he could love a woman more than he loved the memory of Amunet, but here Vanessa was, in the flesh, and she was perfect.

Of all the wretched little lives he'd lived, in all the putrid cities of man, he would never have expected to find love in this one. He'd despised London when he first arrived here, but now, despite the fog and noise and garbage and human filth in the street, he found he loved it, for this city was an integral part of Vanessa and their story together. And when she at last accepted his kiss, the Night Children would bathe the streets in blood, wash away all the filth, and make way for the wolves and bats and all of his beautiful beasts among the crumbling ruins and tributes to the God that had forsaken them both. He'd done well in choosing Renfield to report back on Vanessa so he could better cater to her needs. He was pleased to hear she'd burned the cross hanging in her bedroom. She was halfway his already, whether she knew it or not.

He wished that Renfield didn't snivel so. His mastery over the Night Children left them with a crooked affect that he worried would make Vanessa feel ill at ease. He would have to do something about that before she took up her place as the Mother of Evil, lest she reject the entire family outright. But for now he was running late to receive Renfield's update, and his concerns would have to wait for another day.


	2. Perfect moments can't last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dracula watches Vanessa sleep after their first tryst in the museum.

When Vanessa came to him and described to him his own supposed ill intent toward her, it was like an arrow through his heart. Of course, he understood why she would think "Dracula" was a danger to her, but he longed to correct her. He ached for her to see him for who he was, the same way he saw her. All of the chaos he'd sown, all of the machinations, were done in service to her. They may have originally been intended to herd her toward him, using his children like sheep dogs to close off her avenues of escape. But Vanessa had too much of the Night in her to be so easily trapped. She had met every challenge he'd put in place. For this he loved her.

And there she was before him, inviting him into her life despite the danger. Displaying a vulnerability he'd scarcely dared to hope for. He could do nothing but encircle her in his arms.

Finding her on top of him, ripping open his shirt and scattering the buttons across the floor, was an additional surprise. He was unaccustomed to being caught off guard, and even less so to being delighted by these surprises. He felt as though he might melt right there under her from sheer bliss.

But the real joy came later. Watching her doze and covering her with his jacket stirred something in him that he didn't know was there. He'd stood over so many bedsides, watched so many women sleep, unaware of the danger lurking above them. These moments usually inspired contempt in him. Humans were completely vulnerable in their sleep. The fact that they had managed to rein supreme over more vigilant and elegant beasts was an affront to everything he stood for. Vanessa inspired none of these familiar feelings of superiority and disgust. Instead, he felt tender and warm, sentiments that he had thought other men weak for letting themselves indulge in. He longed to hear her voice, to stay up until dawn talking about everything and nothing, to show her each and every small Night Creature that had been ignored and belittled by narrower minds. But part of him wished she would never wake up, and that this perfect moment could be preserved in a amber for him to tend to and cherish forever in one of his glass cases.

But soon she would wake up. She would learn that her boogeyman, the progenitor of her nightmares, and the man she'd invited in to fight those nightmares were one and the same. She would, of course, understand and accept him. He had to believe that. If he allowed doubt to creep in at this juncture it would be his undoing. Her love and mercy would be his salvation. She would not be cruel enough to deny him.

Of all the things to spoil this crystalline moment, he wouldn't have guessed it to be Renfield. If the little worm weren't valuable he would have ripped out his throat right there. He saw the scene in his mind: the warm spray of blood dotting Vanessa's face and decolletage, her eyes fluttering open and horror gradually dawning on her as her sleep addled mind pieced together the gory tableau above. That was not how he wanted Vanessa to learn about him, so he dismissed Renfield with a sneer and watched him crawl away. He wanted to take a kerchief and wipe Renfield's spittle from Vanessa's neck, but didn't want to call attention to the violation. He had promised that Renfield was his chosen one. Renfield had done good work for him, and Dracula was loathe to break a promise. But he might have to dispose of the groveling, snotty thing. Some humans took to the Night gracefully, but his Renfield was not one of them.

Dracula made sure that the first thing Vanessa saw when she awoke was her beloved Alexander Sweet. He woke her with a gentle call of her name, and gazed down at her. She her eyes met his without any of the rheum or confusion that usually followed sleep.

"It's morning," he said quietly.

"I haven't slept so well in years," she said, a small smile gracing her features.

"I hope it was the company," he responded, planning on sounding more sardonic, but the genuine love and warmth in his heart poked through instead. He felt he ought to be embarrassed, but he couldn't muster the energy for it. Vanessa's radiance erased any self consciousness that he might have felt showing vulnerability to a lesser woman. They kissed briefly and he amended his previous wish. It was this moment, this kiss, that he wished would stretch into eternity. How could he have wished to preserve her in sleep when it was her indomitable, lively spirit that gave his life new meaning? But this moment was not built to last.

"Now," he said, regretfully, "not to put _too_ fine a point on it, but it might be advisable for us to vacate the premises before the staff arrives."

She laughed quietly and let her smile light up her entire face. "There's no rush, and I have tea brewing," he added, and she reached her head up slightly to meet him in another brief kiss.

"You're too good," she said, and he could see in her face that, at least in this moment, she meant it.

He stood, and backed away from her slightly. The temptation to drop his ruse and beg her to accept him as he was nearly overwhelming him. "I hope you always think that." He left to check the tea, not trusting himself to speak for a few moments. He wasn't used to feeling this much or this hard. He wasn't sure whether he was desperate for a return to normal, or whether he wanted this passion and love to consume him in its flame.


	3. The Plea of the Night Creature

Dracula watched from above as Vanessa entered the museum, resolute and cold. Her heel taps echoed in the empty exhibit. He took a deep, steadying breath and focused on those footsteps.

"The House of the Night Creatures," she said, challenging him from across the mezzanine.

"Where you are loved," he replied simply. The corners of her lips folded down in a grimace and he felt his heart tearing. This was not supposed to be how she found out. He would find whoever tipped her off and rend him limb from limb. He would feed the interloper to the Night Children. He would destroy all that the wretch held dear. Dracula deserved more time to cherish this peace he and Vanessa had fostered. The solidarity. But now all was on the brink of ruin, of not lost completely.

"Stop it," she whispered, and he hated himself for the hurt in her eyes. And he hated her for not seeing him as clearly as he saw her. She was his everything, and he needed her.

"Where you belong," he said, keeping his voice cool, but yearning to go to her and hold her safe in his arms again. To posses her and for her to possess him, a perfect closed loop that the world would never breach.

"You're more cruel than I could have imagined." She sounded resolute. Resigned even. Dracula cast his eyes down in shame for just a moment, but he carried on. He could not continue to let her see it that way. There was so much of the night he'd wanted to show her, so many forgotten corners of the city filled with the broken things who needed their mother. She was supposed to see them, and learn to feel for them, before the time came for her to make her decision.

"How am I cruel," he said, releasing the banister and starting toward her. "To love you?" He walked slowly, deliberately, not wanting to chase her away. Although, he had to remind himself, she was his scorpion, not a defenseless quarry about to bolt.

"You lied to me from the first moment. You tore my heart."

"Have I lied?" he asked, mostly sincerely. Of course, there were the tiny, unavoidable details, but no one was honest all the time. He had never lied about anything important. Nothing that the force of their bond couldn't overcome. "You met a man who marvels wide-eyed at the miracles of nature. So I am." He continued forward, his head high, not breaking eye contact with her. "You met a man who has known pain and tragedy. And so I am." He grew more confident each step he took without her retreat.

"You met a man who wanted to possess you for his own ends, but, instead, he fell in love. That's the man I am," he said as he finally approached her. Her eyes were steely, full of indignation and resentment, but he could not let himself back down now.

"And the monster." He could not deny it, and he would not. It was time for her to realize that the two were one and the same. He stood before her, awaiting a verdict.

"Even now you twist at me," she said, her voice still quiet. "All the years. All the assaults on myself, on my friends, on my dear Mina who died with her teeth on your throat," by the end she was hoarse, impassioned, but not quite yelling. He did not regret killing Mina. She would have come between them, had she been allowed to live. The simpering, flighty girl had done nothing but hold Vanessa back. He clenched his fists. Mina was a means to an end, and he killed her out of love. "How dare you speak of love," she shouted, and for a moment he wondered if she could hear his thoughts. Her eyes were bright and watery, as if on the verge of tears, but there was no sign of weakness in her now.

"Dare with me," he said simply. It did not sound like much of a plea, but she must have known how painful it was for him to ask. To debase himself like this. He was not one for asking.

"I will not lower my head and feed with the animals," she spat. He saw his children through her eyes. How piteous, how contemptible. How could she think that this is what he wanted of her?

She pointed at him and he saw the witch in her, wondered if she was about to curse him, and wondered what she could do to him that was worse than this wretched existence he already had. "I will never serve you," she said. Not a spell, not a curse. A simple declaration that might as well have been a love incantation for the way it tightened her hold on his heart.

"No," he said, gazing down at her. "I don't want you to serve me, Vanessa. I want to serve you. The Mother of Evil."

She spat on him and stalked away. A disgusting, base attack on his dignity that he was not prepared for. He raised his hand to wipe his face, and covered his eyes in exasperation and shame. Would she have him beg? Mere months ago he would have been above that, but no longer.

"What has my life been? A series of shabby identities in vulgar worlds," he started after her. "From one tragic age to another. Always in search of that one thing I cannot attain! Have mercy, please!"

She spun on her heel to reveal the pistol in her grip. "This is the only mercy I can offer you."

"Then do it," he whispered, not even sure himself whether this was a gambit or he truly meant it. What would another century, another millennium without her by his side look like? He was sure he could not weather it. "Better to die now than walk another day without you." He searched inside, and to his shock, he meant it.

"So it's a love story, is it?" she said, the pistol aimed squarely at his heart, nearly brushing his chest where her head had laid scant hours before. 

"You know it is. We have been shunned in our time, Vanessa. The world turns away in horror. Why? Because we're different. Ugly. Exceptional. We're the lonely night creatures are we not? The bat, the fox, the spider, the rat."

"The scorpion," she added softly, almost just to herself. At this point, the tears began to fall and he longed to cry with her.

"The broken things," he agreed.

"The unloved," she said. The lamp light shone on the tear trails on her face, and it took all he had not to advance on her. To claim her. How could she possibly number herself among the unloved?

"There's one monster who loves you for who you really are. And here he stands. I don't want to make you good. I don't want you to be normal." As he said this, she began to lower the gun. He thought he saw her thawing, recognizing the clarity with which he saw her. "I don't want you to be anything but who you truly are."

She was silent for a long moment, eyes cast down, as if holding a private dialogue with herself. The silence was agonizing. He would have slaughtered all of London, sacrificed all of his children to hear her thoughts in that moment. She turned away from him, and if she did not speak soon, the pressure in his chest might actually compel him to destroy every living creature in his path.

"You have tried for so long to be what everyone wants you to be. What you thought you ought to be. What your church and your family and your doctors said you must be. Why not be who you are instead?" He stepped forward, careful not to position himself behind her, but to her side, whispering in her ear.

"Myself?"

"You will never be alone again," he swore. "I will love you till time has lost all meaning."

"Yes," she said breathily, gazing into his eyes again, this time not with resentment or hurt on her face, but naked longing.

"Do you accept me?" he asked, his face mere inches from hers, the proximity nearly burning him.

"I accept myself," she said, lolling her neck back and succumbing to his hold. She gasped softly as he lowered his head to her neck. He lost himself in her. The world narrowed, and it was as if they were the only two creatures left in existence. Nothing else mattered. After endless moments, but far too soon, she collapsed into his arms. He lifted her, holding her tight, and started toward home. 

It was time for the children to meet the Mother of Evil.


End file.
